


wishes unsaid

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, One Shot, Post-December Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: Mishima treasures even the smallest of moments between them, since there isn't a lot of time left to share.





	wishes unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> go to sleep, says morgana, of which i blatantly ignore to make bad writing decisions. this literally is just super self-indulgent and idgaf okay like y’all can hate on my boy mishima and that’ll just fuel me to write more garbage fanfics ‘bout him and his boyfriend so like please enjoy i’m gonna go fight the reaper and cry about my poor choices. also this isn't really beta'd or anything sorry in advance i just needed to break outta my writing rut lol;; (also also this is a gift to a good pal of mine who goes by @achu3p on the twitters-dot-coms--hope u like it.)

The old garbage TV set pales in comparison to the one Mishima’s parents bought just six months ago, but it still displays cheesy, old-school video games just fine. Eight-bit characters move about the screen as Kurusu’s deft fingers button-mash through his turn, pixelated animations glorifying the various spells cast to aid the weary heroes. The screen flickers different colors in the bedroom, and Mishima, having long-since given up on pretending to do homework, leans forward on his chair.

“This guy’s a dick,” Kurusu mutters, knee twitching.

“You’re not supposed to attack when the dragon is in mist-form, you know.” He bends down at an awkward angle and picks up the half-full mug of coffee resting near his feet. Since his inauguration into high school, energy drinks became his lifeblood, since he normally cannot stomach the bitter taste of coffee. But Kurusu’s coffee, well. Mishima sips at it and licks his lips. Yum. “You are just supposed to guard.”

“My not-sister tells me guarding is for, and I quote, ‘scrubs.’” 

Mishima sighs. Kurusu’s stubbornness rivals that of the Mist Dragon That Adamantly Refuses to Die (brought to you by Circle Inex), so arguing with him would be fruitless. Instead, he settles for shaking his head and glancing at his phone. The digital clock ticks past midnight. Any other evening, he would have received frantic, anxious texts from his mother, demanding where her little Yuuki could be at _this_ hour. Ever since the Kamoshida incident last April, she’s been keeping a closer eye on him, almost hovering, almost smothering. But he already told her he was going to stay “at a friend’s” tonight, which nearly gave her a heart-attack, if the bulging eyes gave any indication. (“You have a _friend,”_ she said, almost shocked. “A real-life one, too? Not one of those weird Internet ones?” Thanks, Mom.)

No new messages. He switches apps to his favorite news feed, scrolling through the top stories: Valentine’s around the corner and what gifts to give your lover, latest building developments in Shibuya, blah, blah, blah. He instinctively shifts to the Phan-Site, even though the Phantom Thieves already disbanded a little while ago, but it’s a habit. Activity has slowed lately, and a quaint sadness tickles Mishima’s stomach. All good things come to end, he supposes. Although now, with the makings of a rough draft scribbled in his school notebooks, he has something _else_ to look forward to. He clicks off the phone and returns his attention to the TV screen.

 _DEFEAT._ Hah, figures. Kurusu should’ve guarded, but he’s never been one to listen to his former-PR manager. He hides his knowing smile behind his hand, almost laughing as Kurusu lowers his head, clicking his tongue in distaste. Mishima extends a hand.

“My turn.”

The game itself isn’t too hard, especially with only a few hours clocked-in so far. He remembers beating it several times over when he was younger, when he was lonelier; with no friends and hordes of enemies, what better way to slay your bullies than pretending they are the monsters undesirably populating a fictional world? His tongue sticks out, biting down on it while concentrating, controller slick from his balmy hands. What, did Kurusu set his game to Hard-mode when Mishima wasn’t looking? The accursed dragon seems harder than usual, or--

He glances at the stats of the two characters.

“Did you not level-grind at _all?_ ”

“Not really.”

“Oh my god. No wonder why you suck at this game.”

Kurusu remains silent. Mishima tries to strategize - no dark magic for Seasel, that’ll take unnecessary HP, and the other guy needs to focus on Sky Dropping every single turn - only for his thumb to slip once he feels a chin resting atop his head. His shoulders tense for a brief moment when arms wrap around his chest, unused to such affectionate contact, before relaxing when he remembers, _oh, it’s Kurusu, it’s safe._ But Seasel _isn’t_ safe as the animation for the dark magic takes roughly five seconds to cycle through, chipping a good chunk of the hero’s health. 

“Hey,” Mishima whispers, and his voice cracks just a little. Kurusu responds by tightening his grip like the little distracting jerk he can be, probably wearing one of those trademark _smirks_ of his. “Do you want me to clear this mini-boss or not?”

“I don’t care either way. If you win, then you get to keep going, but if you _lose,_ ” Kurusu’s voice dips into something sultry and borderline - dare Mishima think it - seductive, “we can maybe do something else.”

“Something else,” Mishima echoes. Boy, for it being in the dead of winter, the temperature in this airy attic sure increased tenfold in the past three seconds, huh? 

“Yeah. My cat sure recommends it, too.” Okay? That’s a little weird, Mishima thinks, but oh, crap, he hit the wrong button again, and oh no, what a terrible and completely unavoidable scenario he has found himself in, throwing himself into reckless peril and possible potential death. “I’m _sure_ you’re heard of it. We’ve done it a few times…”

Well, there’s the GAME OVER screen. Welp. Mishima glances upward in anticipation.

“Would you look at that,” Kurusu responds, pointing at the TV.

“Interesting development, huh,” Mishima replies, nodding.

“Very.”

The chair almost clatters to the floor from Mishima rising to his feet to fast, whipping around to face Kurusu with enthusiastic eyes and greedy hands. His fingertips meet and stroke Kurusu’s cheeks, tracing along the jawline for a brief moment, only to hesitate. What if he’s read the situation all wrong? But Kurusu is staring at him, and _only_ at him (amongst much more suitable candidates, in a crowd of similarly-aged high schoolers with many more merits to their names), with parted lips and widened eyes. 

“Um,” Mishima manages. He starts to retract his hands - yeah, he completely misread his intentions, he probably wants to sleep, now that Mishima thinks about it - but Kurusu, with a certain gentleness, holds his wrists still. 

“You’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

The black cat stirs from its rest on the futon, glances at the two of them, and emits a peculiar _whine_ of a meow before bolting downstairs. Kurusu barks a laugh, shakes his head, and pulls Mishima into a hug, forehead pressing against his shoulder. Unusual.

“I’m sure.”

Ah. Mishima draws in a slow breath and allows his hands to ride up along Kurusu’s back. He _did_ seem somewhat withdrawn today and a bit lackluster in the sass department, so he must be inching towards one of _those_ episodes.

(“I just,” Kurusu said once, gaze fixated upon a steaming cup of coffee, “get miserable for no reason sometimes. I figured you should know, since we’re… like this.”)

That’s all right. Mishima’s here, and he’ll do his best to help as the number-one Phantom Thief/Kurusu fan-boy this side of Tokyo’s ever seen. He glances up at the ceiling, where numerous glow-in-the-dark stars pepper the otherwise cobweb-infested wooden planks, and pats Kurusu’s shoulder twice. 

“Go brush your teeth,” Mishima orders, keeping his tone light and playful. “I don’t want to kiss day-old curry.”

Kurusu produces a faint sound, as if reluctant to leave Mishima’s hold, before pulling away and shuffling towards the bathroom downstairs. Mishima watches him for a moment, eyebrows knitting closer together, and then bites his bottom lip. Over the past few months, he became determined to learn his now-boyfriend’s mannerisms better, since expressing himself (aside from his typical deadpan humor) is not his strongest asset. The undeniable sadness festering behind those glasses never reveals itself in an obvious fashion; instead, Mishima must dissect every little subtlety in Kurusu’s character to see his true mood. 

Of course, he failed many times to get it right when they started dating. He often found himself wrapped up in his own problems, unable to devote attention to Kurusu’s needs as well, until Sakamoto pulled him aside with a scary, stern expression and hissing out the utmost frightening _“Dude, we need to talk”_ he’s ever heard.

But now. Now, even though Mishima knows his own selfishness still drives most of his outlook and motivations, there’s a particular place in his heart for Kurusu that steadily grows larger and larger with each passing moment between them. A warm sensation, a tingling in the toes. Before, it used to be _I want to be happy and known,_ but a soft whisper has grown louder, uttering, _I want Kurusu to be happy and for the world to know he deserves it._

Like the very Phantom Thieves he will forever look up to, he balls his hands into fists and nods sharply, preparing his _own_ little mission to steal whatever it is weighing down Kurusu’s mind tonight. He needs to be secretive. Discreet. ( _They call me the Arbiter, the Guardian Angel, the insert-cool-codename-here, and I’m going to steal your heart, Kurusu! Wow, that sounds lamer than I thought. What is this, a shoujo manga? Oh well. Aaaaaaand pose! Fuwaaaa! Like Sailor Moon. Moon Prism Power, activate! Wait, but am I like her or Tuxedo Mask in this instance?_ )

“What’re you doing?”

Mishima freezes in place, balancing on one leg while mid-imitation of his second-favorite superhero. Kurusu tilts his head to the side, shaggy hair damp with little droplets caught in the tangles, appearing confused. Mishima laughs sheepishly and rubs the back of his head. 

“Oh, you know. Stretching?”

He doesn’t seem to buy it, but doesn’t press him for more, either. Instead, he settles his glasses near the TV set and yawns. His nightclothes are much more simplistic when compared to Mishima’s sheep-patterned ones (his mom bought them for him, okay, it totally isn’t because he likes how cute and fuzzy they are, no, not at all, shut up). The blankets billow as Kurusu pulls them off the back of the futon and straightens them properly. Mishima sits on the sofa, hands clasping together in thought while Kurusu finishes his bedtime rituals. What can he do to help?

“C’mere.”

Mishima looks up. Kurusu lounges in his futon with a corner of the blanket peeled back. He pats the small, vacant space beside him and puts on a reassuring smile. Mishima still isn’t used to this, this concept of “liking someone so much you want to cuddle and kiss and stuff in bed,” even though they’ve been doing this for some time. He gulps, hurries into his nightclothes (and fully aware of Kurusu’s pressing stare), and approaches the futon with determination burning in his gut. He _will_ make Kurusu feel better. He will.

“You’re gonna get wrinkles in your forehead if you keep scowling like that, y’know.” Kurusu pokes Mishima and tugs on his fleece top, dragging him closer. Under the blankets, the winter chill that seeps into the old-yet-beloved attic is all but forgotten. “You thinking too hard again? Do I need to manage my manager?”

“Certainly not,” Mishima retorts, then sidles up to his boyfriend, “and that is _ex-_ manager to you. I am now your producer of the greatest not-yet-made documentary known to Japan.”

“So my sugar-daddy, then.”

“No!”

“Let’s spend all your royalties on cat treats, m’kay?”

“Do I not get a say in this?”

“But we gotta make sure to use half the funds to go to the fancy buffet we never ended up going to, for sure.”

“Why is all my hypothetical hard-earned money going towards food?”

“And who exactly is giving you the chance to _make_ said-money off of all my team’s hard work?” Kurusu raises an eyebrow.

Mishima sighs. He has a point, but still - “You cannot keep bringing up the fact that you defeated a literal god just to win arguments, Kurusu. I do not see _you_ making a documentary of your escapades and writing and filming and editing it.”

“The same could be said for you.”

He sputters, eyes widening a fraction, before looking away and letting out a small laugh. “You have me there. Writing is _hard._ ”

“It’s alright.” Kurusu twirls some locks of Mishima’s hair between his forefinger and thumb before pecking a kiss on his cheek. “Take your time with it. I’ve got plenty of money for the both of us for the time being.”

Can someone write down “Phantom Thief Income” on their taxes in the first place? Mishima’s train of thought halts when Kurusu kisses him on the lips this time, gently. A goodnight kiss. Mishima returns it, a little more forceful from nerves, before jerking his head away. Kurusu seems to ponder for a moment, then cracks a smile. Ah, there it is. Mission success. Mishima almost lets out a sigh of relief; whatever ails Kurusu will have to come haunt him some _other_ night (whenever Mishima isn’t on duty, of course. Which’ll be never).

“What’re you doing on the fourteenth?”

The four--oh. _Oh._ “I am assuming something with a pretty boy who thinks himself to be subtle. Milk or dark? Do not expect anything super-fancy, though.”

Kurusu’s eyes wrinkle around the edges. “Dark. Don’t forget flowers.”

 _I’m going to miss you,_ Mishima almost blurts out, chest reeling from the sight of such a genuine expression of affection. “Only the reddest of roses,” he says instead. “Maybe with a little calling card of my own to go with them, too. ‘To the best boyfriend in the world: stop being so cool, it makes the rest of us look bad.’”

“You’re not supposed to get yourself roses, idiot.”

“Huh? I was not getting them for m--” He does a double-take, then rolls his eyes before nudging him in the shoulder. “ _Kurusu._ ”

A beat of silence passes between them. Kurusu reaches over and turns off the lamp, casting the room into darkness. Overhead, the glow-in-the-dark stars emit a soft shade of green. How many more times is Mishima going to come over to some sketchy-but-homey cafe just to see this slipshod attic adorned to death with contrasting knick-knacks from all over Tokyo? How many more times will they share goofy whispers like this? It’s everything Mishima’s ever dreamed of - even _more_ than that - and he’s this close to losing it. How can he show how much Kurusu means to him in such a limited time?

Kurusu rolls away, facing the wall, before backing into Mishima, who promptly wraps an arm around his waist. If he’s learned anything, it’s that Kurusu is a sucker for cuddles. Mishima closes his eyes. 

“Hey, Kurusu?” He staves off a yawn. Struggles to find the proper words of appreciation. “Uh, thanks, for not giving up on me, you know, even when I was really annoying and obsessive about you guys. I never said it before, but I think--I mean, even I would have given up on me. I am just happy that you saw something in me worth sticking around for.”

Silence. Is he sleeping? Mishima waits, but no response comes. He shifts to get more comfortable and listens to the sounds of steady breathing. It’s okay, though. Not everything needs to have a reply between them.

“Akira.”

Huh? “Wha?” He’s still awake, after all?

“You can call me Akira,” a sleepy voice says, fingernails roaming over Mishima’s knuckles, “and you weren’t annoying. Obsessive, maybe. But never annoying, not really. Besides, you got better.” A pause. Fingers lace together with Mishima’s. “Passionate. That’s the word I’d use, if I were good at the word-thing like you are. Inspiring, too. You really just don’t get how much you did for us. And I didn’t see it ‘til much, much later, either. I should be thanking _you._ ”

“But I only ran a fan website,” he protests, _and I used it and you guys for my own agenda,_ he wants to continue, only to be shushed.

“We’re not arguing this at stupid o’clock in the morning,” Kurusu - _Akira_ \- says, then grips Mishima’s hand tightly. “So lemme just say thank you for always seeming to make me happy, and thank you for being so stupidly supportive, like, all the time. Insert words of you being great more than you think here. Leaving it at that, no buts. Sleep time now. G’night, Yuuki.”

Mishima almost barks out a laugh, but is too stunned by the use of his first name to even manage a wheeze. The half-moon’s rays seep through a break in the clouds and catches in his hair, which glints an almost ethereal silver. _Pretty. Pretty_ and _unfair._ He swallows hard, heart hammering against his chest, before pressing his forehead between Akira’s shoulder blades. 

He’s wrong, Akira is. Mishima’s still as obsessed and annoyingly clingy as ever, and it’s _worse_ than before. _Stupider_ than before. They lost a lot of time from those charges, and more seconds go by faster and faster than Mishima wants or can fathom.

 _I like you,_ he yearns to say. _I like you, I like you, I like you, don’t go, please stay here with me, I lo--_

“Goodnight,” he whispers instead, ignoring the anxious desires lurking in the shadows and favoring the soft, fleeting moments ticking away between them, “Akira.”


End file.
